Some Things Get Left in Boxes
by a reason for junebugs
Summary: Cameron does a little unsanctioned exploring one night at Chase's place and finds some of his most personal things. Oneshot.


A/N: Old-ish fic retrieved at great cost from the depths of my laptop. I wrote it when I was just getting into House, and then never bothered to post it, 'cause it seemed a little OOC and/or AU (or just bad) after seeing more of the show... but then it got lonely, so this can go up here and I can just pretend it's not mine. (Speaking of which, it isn't. +disclaims+)

* * *

Cameron told herself that Chase had begged her to stay. He had. Sort of. He'd said she shouldn't drive when it was late and she'd been drinking, and he was right, so she'd outwardly accepted that and silently convinced herself that she was doing him a favour. They'd skipped over their mangled and mismatched _real_ reasons, whatever the hell they were, and settled on that one – one that left the dignity of both parties intact, and meant nothing. Or close enough.

She couldn't sleep, though. She couldn't sleep next to him, while he was dressed in boxers and a sheet, with his arm stretched out over half the bed, like if she would just lie down and sleep encircled in that arm she would fall under his domain. Hah. Instead, she was lying on her stomach with her upper body propped up on her elbows. She'd turned the lamp on the bedside table on, a good half hour ago, to fend off the frustrating drowsiness that brought her halfway to sleep, where this mindless inner conflict surfaced and held her, halfway away from everything she wanted, sleep included. She'd turned on the light to distract herself, occupying herself with tracing the pattern of freckles on Chase's outstretched arm, just with her eyes, not touching.

He'd flinched away from the lamplight, and she'd held herself stalk still since, not wanting to wake him. That would lead to an exchange she didn't want to have. There wasn't any exchange she _would_ want to have with him, right now, even if she _were_ running out of freckles.

She wasn't looking at him. Really. She'd certainly never notice the lurching rise and fall of his chest, or the sighing sound of his breath. Certainly not.

The wall above the plain, oak-toned bed was painted a flat white that looked like a rainbow of yellows and greys in the harsh lamplight. There was a hole in the wall, centred above the bed, which must have been where a picture had hung, before. She wondered if it had been a picture Chase had hung, and, if it had been, then why he'd taken it down. Or, if it had been the previous tenant's, then why Chase hadn't fixed the hole, in all this time he'd been there. Maybe he'd just never noticed, she thought. Maybe he liked it.

Maybe she needed some sleep.

Sighing, Cameron looked around again. There was a tense little knot in her chest panting "What are you even doing here? Shouldn't you know what you're doing?" at her, but she smothered it with the image of a bad striped shirt crumpled on the floor by the bed, abandoned in haste. It was almost – watching.

She shook her head.

The alarm clock on the side table beamed out 3:49 in fluorescent blue that was cut down nearly to nothing by the yellow lamplight. There was a half-full (half-empty?) glass of water there, too – old, Cameron thought, and wrinkled her nose at it – Chase's cell phone – when had he had time to put it there? – and an empty paper wrapper. Huh. Well, at least she knew how long _that_ had been there.

On the shelf, underneath, was a carved wooden box, detailed with feminine swirls and –were those _flowers_? Risking a glance at Chase – still asleep – Cameron shifted her weight to one elbow, extracting the box from the shelf with the other hand. It looked old, but well cared for, the wooden lid hinged on tiny, tarnished, but still functioning silver hinges.

She almost stopped, after just a peek inside, but her curiosity, or perhaps her years with House, got the best of her. She lifted out the item on top, a closed, hinged picture frame, revealing two different sets of rosary beads, a delicate, pale gold and crystal – diamond? – ring, a small carved wooden animal, and a worn, leather-bound Bible underneath. She could feel her jaw drop and closed it, self-consciously, chewing her lip.

She should put this away. Put it _away_, already. But she didn't.

Her fingers crept over the edge of the box, feeling its solid warmth, its smoothness. It reminded her of Chase, for all that it had flowers carved on the panels. She was captivated by the rosaries, trying to recall if she'd ever actually seen one before. She must have, she supposed. Patients and their families were always praying. But she'd never noticed. Maybe they just hadn't been as beautiful as this one in Chase's box – silver with cloudy, grey-blue stones and larger, flowery, porcelain beads. The other was plainer, black and gold and she wasn't nearly so taken by it itself, only the fact that it was there. She'd never imagined Chase with a rosary. She could hardly imagine him praying. And why would he have two? She didn't know much about religion, but that seemed strange, especially when one set was so, well, _girly_.They were beautiful. She wanted to touch them.

Her teeth dug into her lip, harder than before, without her consent, and it woke her up. She snatched her fingers away from the box. This was none of her business. None of her business. She should put these things back. Really.

She opened the picture frame, instead.

The frame was silver, too, and just tarnished a bit, in the lower right hand corner, in the smudgy shape of a thumbprint. The picture in the left panel showed a decidedly younger looking but still recognizable Chase. He was maybe twelve. Thirteen? And his hair looked exactly the same – warm, dark blond, a little long, carefully combed. He was wearing a black suit with a pink – oh, Chase – pink shirt and a royal blue tie, standing beneath a thin, middle-aged woman with fine features and fine, pale blonde hair, elaborately put up. She was wearing a dark blue cocktail dress that made her look too pale, save for the bright spots of colour on her cheeks. Her hand rested on Chase's shoulder familiarly and she was smiling widely. He was barely smiling at all, lips sealed and eyes untouched, leaning into her. Leaning into his mother, she guessed. The photograph in the other panel was of the same woman and Chase's father, years younger and both smiling, no (Robert) Chase in sight.

Cameron snapped the frame shut and held it by the corners, tightly. She didn't know what to think. She should just put this all away and forget about it.

But these things were so beautiful, so _personal_. It was like Chase had fit his entire life into a box. Nothing else in his apartment was personal at all, Cameron realized, and was immediately unsure why she'd never noticed it before. It was a nice place, furnished and tidy, but there weren't any photos on the walls, or the tables, or his dresser. All there was on his bedside table was an alarm clock, a dreadfully plain glass, his cell phone, and the wrapper from the condom they'd used. All there was on the wall was a nail-hole where a picture had used to hang. She put the picture frame back over the other items in the box, her fingers brushing against the beads, and a small wooden figurine. The thing had four legs, but after that it was anyone's guess what it was supposed to be. It was so innocent, though, and Chase, he –

He was watching her.

"Oh," she said, stupidly, in surprise.

"You've spent too much time around House."

"I'm – I'm sorry," Cameron covered, putting the frame back in the box. "I couldn't sleep."

Chase was silent, watching her, too closely for comfort.

"I was just – " What? She was just what? "Bored." She said, finally, and winced despite herself. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have."

"You should be sobered up by now," Chase said. His voice had an odd, flat quality to it, but she couldn't decide if he sounded angry, hurt, just tired, or maybe, somehow, resigned. "You don't have to stay."

"No," Cameron said, quickly, replacing the lid on the carved wooden box, and slipping it back onto its shelf. "I'm – tired. And I'm heading for a horrible hangover." And she was. Sort of. "I probably still shouldn't drive."

Chase looked her over, his eyes settling on hers. "Okay," he said. "Turn out that damned light, 'right?"

"That was your mom?" Cameron asked, flicking the lamp off. "In the pictures?"

"Yeah," Chase answered flatly, into the dark.

"She was beautiful."

"Yeah."

"Was that hers, the box?" she asked, and then thought better of it. "I'm sorry. I wasn't – "

"Yeah."

Cameron opened her mouth to say something else, just to get a different reaction, but closed it again, frustrated.

"It's alright," Chase said, of his own accord. "Let's get some sleep, okay?"

Cameron half-smiled, still a bit uncomfortable, but now distracted from it. "Yeah," she answered, and bedded down beside the Chase-lump under the covers.


End file.
